


our touching, our stories ; earthy and holy both

by deadgreeks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Christianity, M/M, Queer Themes, Trans Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trans Crowley (Good Omens), but only ? kind of, normally i don't go in for human aus but. this one owns me, the mood for this one is no choir by florence and the machine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:04:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgreeks/pseuds/deadgreeks
Summary: A series of ficlets about Human!AU Crowley and Aziraphale---Everything that was broken hasforgotten its brokenness. I livenow in a sky-house, through everywindow the sun. Also your presence.Our touching, our stories. Earthyand holy both. How can this be, butit is. Every day has something init whose name is Forever.





	1. guardians of a rare thing

**Author's Note:**

> "And it's hard to write about being happy  
'Cause the older I get  
I find that happiness is an extremely uneventful subject  
And there would be no grand choirs to sing  
No chorus could come in  
About two people sitting, doing nothing."  
[-No Choir by Florence and the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_c3P-YWLpQ)

It looks like this:

Crowley stands at the counter in sweatpants and combat boots, muttering to himself as he counts out bills with hands shaking from the release of adrenaline for a bag of chips (he’s always starving after a gig) and a pack of cigarettes (Aziraphale is going to tut at him and refuse to kiss him until he brushes his teeth, but he insists the nicotine will settle him). Aziraphale is beside him, his crisp white collar smudged with lipstick; his cheek and lips are stained red.

(It looks like this:

Crowley does drag every Saturday night, and has for almost twenty years. Aziraphale has been at nearly every one of his shows, and he always sits right by the stage, always stands up to cheer at Crowley’s act, always throws a flower on the stage–when they’re both gainfully employed, he’ll buy one; when they’re not, he’ll pick one, from a rose bush outside a bank or a patch of pansies in the park, or even a weed if he must, _never_ picked from the flowers Crowley keeps on their small and structurally unsound balcony–and when it’s over, he’ll make his way to the green room, and the moment he enters, Crowley will drop his makeup wipe and run to him, fling himself into his arms, pepper his face with kisses, dizzy with the energy of a show, and the other queens will roll their eyes and groan and hide their smiles behind makeup brushes and hands, and sometimes Aziraphale, if his back isn’t bothering him too terribly, will spin him around–he always did when they were younger, but retail is hell on the body–but he’ll always tell him he did wonderfully, he looks beautiful, it was his best show yet, and he says it so earnestly Crowley can’t help but believe him)

He holds the duffel bag with Crowley’s costume in it and his heels, because Crowley is _not _going to put those wretched things back on; he might’ve strutted home towering over London at twenty-five, but he’s going on forty now, he’s too old for that, and he doesn’t need heels to make his ass look great, _thanks_. Or so Aziraphale tells him, and that’s the only opinion that matters, he supposes. There’s glitter falling off him every time he moves; it’s in his hairline, and smeared on the bills. The cashier has worked this shift for months now, she’s used to it.

(It looks like this:

Almost every Saturday, on the walk home, Crowley begins complaining that he’s hungry, and Aziraphale will tell him that he _told him so_, he wanted to bring biscuits but Crowley said no, he’s cutting back on the sweets, it’s all lean greens for him, here on, just you watch, angel, I’m going _vegan_, and Crowley will whine until he agrees, and they’ll stop at the corner store and Crowley will pick out some junk food or another, admitting he sees now the foolishness of healthy living, who cares about sodium or sugar, everyone dies eventually, if he dies of cheese puffs, he’ll count himself lucky, and sometimes Aziraphale will get a snack cake if he’s feeling peckish, and when they go to the counter, he’ll nonchalantly ask for a pack of smokes. And Aziraphale will remind him, quite archly, that he said he was quitting, and Crowley will say, “I am, angel, just this once, i’ve gotta settle down somehow or i won’t sleep” and Aziraphale will point out he bought a pack last week, and if he isn’t smoking them, why does he need to buy another pack tonight? And Crowley, who is terrible at lying to him, will avoid his eyes and mutter about losing them or Hastur at work bumming off him on breaks, which isn’t technically a lie, the bastard.)

The florescent lights are harsh, and they look all wrong on Aziraphale, who seems to radiate a kind of warm lamplight that contrasts oddly with cold overheads, but Crowley catches his distorted reflection in the locked glass case of cigarettes, and vain as he is, he thinks they look nice on him, making the cut of his cheekbones look harsher than they are, the red of his hair bloody, the hollows between his knuckles dark. His hands look old, he thinks, like he’s lived much longer than he has.

He and Aziraphale make an odd pair, he knows, admiring them in the reflection. Aziraphale, wearing an argyle sweatervest _and _a plaid tie, in his tweed jacket and corduroys and round glasses; Crowley, sloppily-removed makeup staining his face, in an ONLY ANARCHISTS ARE PRETTY shirt that’s older than the cashier whose screen-printed text can hardly even be read anymore, and his flash Valentino sunglasses he found in a charity shop and loved so much they took out of their savings for, and then of course their AC window unit stopped working two days later in the middle of the heatwave, but Aziraphale swore it was worth it, handsome as he looked in them. They look odd, he knows, but he likes it. He _loves _it.

The cashier hands him his receipt and his change with his pack of cigarettes, and Crowley holds the door for Aziraphale on their way out. He lights a cigarette, and Aziraphale grouses at him to go and walk on the other side of the street if he’s going to be smoking one of those awful things, but he lets Crowley take his arm, lean his head on his shoulder, even takes a drag when Crowley offers him one, his lips meeting Crowley’s fingers on the filter. He’ll never accept the cigarette if Crowley tries to pass it to him, but he nearly always will if Crowley puts it up to his mouth, holds onto it himself. Crowley doesn’t know why; he still coughs and makes faces and says how awful it is, but he likes it, so he doesn’t ask.

“I wrote tonight’s song for you,” Crowley tells him in the dark street, and Aziraphale huffs a laugh; it’s more well-trod ground between them, familiar and never boring.

“You wrote I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen for me?” Aziraphale teases, and Crowley nods solemnly. “How grand of you, dear, writing me another pop sensation.”

“Gotta tell the whole world,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes, as if he’s _joking_, which won’t do, so he says, “I’m serious! I’ll tell everyone, angel,” and he raises his voice to shout into the quiet street, “_I really, really, really–_”

_“Crowley!”_ Aziraphale scolds, but he’s laughing, “it’s one in the morning, people are trying to sleep!”

“What’re they dreaming of that’s better than what we’ve got?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale blushes at that, ducks his head to hide his smile, and Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette, pleased with himself, pleased with the man on his arm, pleased with the lipstick on his cheek that matches the stain on Crowley’s mouth, pleased with the glitter on the cigarette where he holds it between two fingers, pleased with the stamp of his old boots echoing in the street.

(It looks like this:

In the morning, Aziraphale will wake up early, bustle around in the kitchen trying his best to be quiet so he doesn’t wake Crowley on his one day off, but the kitchen as small as it is, Aziraphale as clumsy as he is, the walls as thin as they are, it’s a hopeless cause, and he’ll leave for church, and Crowley will roll into the warm spot he left in the bed. He’ll fall back to sleep with his face pressed into the pillow that smells like his shampoo, thinking that it’s a good thing he’s already got everything he might pray for and God had nothing to do with it, or else he might have to get up and go to church with all the other sorry bastards (and Aziraphale, who he thinks prays for inner peace and money and probably begs forgiveness for whatever blasphemy Crowley’s been cheerfully spewing the past week). Really, he thinks the hours are the whole reason he left the church. He could never worship a morning person.

Or at least, given Aziraphale’s tendency to wake at dawn, not another one.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from [Everything That Was Broken by Mary Oliver](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186920519977/everything-that-was-broken-by-mary-oliver-from)  
Chapter title is from [Riches and Wonders by the Mountain Goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHF80iDFvuI)
> 
> I got requests on tumblr to put the human au on ao3, so here it is! I'll upload things here too when I post them on tumblr I suppose? Here is [the masterpost!](https://ganymxde.tumblr.com/post/186918602922/human-au-masterpost)
> 
> join me on tumblr for my nonstop good omens meltdown


	2. my lips, two blushing pilgrims

It looks like this:

The aquarium is cool and dark and, apart from the occasional screams of delighted children, it’s quiet. Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley’s arm, fingers pinching the folds of his worn leather jacket, beaming all around, and Crowley feels warm pride blooming in his stomach. _He gave him this._ He looks like he’s entered a whole new world, the childlike glee and fascination naked on his face; and even better, he looks at Crowley like he’s handed him all its wonders on a platter.

They don’t get to do things like this often; they make the rounds of the British Museum, the Tate, the parks and public gardens, they’ve probably been to every free museum in the city at least three times over, and they enjoy it; but they don’t often visit places like this, places that cost £40 for just one of them to get in. Christ, the last time was probably for their tenth anniversary, Les Mis on the West End, and they’d saved for a year for seats in the dress circle and a bottle of wine.

(It looks like this:

Crowley waits tables at a posh restaurant in Mayfair, Monday-Friday. It’s miserable, but the tips are better than he’s ever had anywhere else, and it’s there that he met the Dowlings. Their son is a menace; nothing calms him, nothing satisfies or entertains. He threw pasta at the German ambassador’s son and made him scream so loud every wine glass in the place vibrated, and Crowley had seen the helpless look on his mother’s face, the storm brewing in his father’s, and swooped in without another thought, putting on an exaggerated posh accent like some butler from one of Aziraphale’s boring, oddly captivating shows and waited on him the rest of the night as if he were a little despot, pointing out that pelting ones subjects with bread was quite unbecoming of a little prince. He laughed and adopted a dignified air, delighting in ordering Crowley about and racking up his parent’s bill, but he didn’t throw a plate at anyone, so it was an improvement.

At the end of the evening, Mrs. Dowling hadn’t so much asked as _told_ him she’d be hiring him; their nanny had demanded Saturdays off as a break from the little beast, and they needed someone to babysit, because Mrs. Dowling couldn’t possibly be expected to watch him herself. The pay was good, and with living expenses in London what they were and Aziraphale getting his hours cut, he wouldn’t dream of saying no.

There were other perks, too, like Mrs. Dowling throwing him tickets to the London Aquarium some MP had sent them for Warlock’s birthday; she’d taken him once, and he’d tried to steal a little shark from the touch tank. _Never again,_ she said, _take your girlfriend._ She glanced at his ring. _Wife?_)

“Oh, Crowley, dear, look,” Aziraphale cries, pulling him towards one of the tanks. He presses the hand that isn’t on Crowley’s arm against the glass, his eyes wide and bright as a full moon. “A jellyfish! Don’t they just look so marvelous? It’s like they’re dancing.” Crowley smiles and presses closer to his side. “They’re my favorite fish, I think. They just look so _ethereal_.”

“Jellyfish aren’t fish, angel,” Crowley says, bemused. “They’re…I dunno, jello.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley, it’s in the name,” he tells him, very patiently. “They wouldn’t be in an aquarium if they weren’t fish.”

“Dolphins aren’t fish and they’re in the aquarium,” Crowley points out, quite sensibly. Aziraphale still hasn’t looked away from the jellyfish, and Crowley still hasn’t looked away from Aziraphale. He likes the fish, he does, but there’s something a thousand times more fascinating about watching Aziraphale watching them.

“Of course dolphins are fish,” Aziraphale says. His brow furrows. “They live in the ocean, dear, I’ve seen Planet Earth.”

(It looks like this:

Crowley practically runs home from the bus stop, barely getting his wild grin under control before he barges into their flat. Aziraphale is cooking, doing whatever it is he does that makes store brand pasta and sauce from Tesco’s taste less like chalk. He hides the tickets behind his back–he held them in his hands the whole way home, leg bouncing, feeling as giddy as he had on the way to their first date–adopting an innocent expression, but Aziraphale isn’t fooled; he gives him a suspicious look the moment he sees him and says, “What are you up to, you old serpent?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says, very convincingly–he did theater in college, he’s an excellent actor, thanks–and strolls over to give him a kiss in greeting, slides up behind him and puts his chin on his shoulder to peer down into the sauce. “Smells good.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, preening.

“What are you doing tomorrow after church?” he asks, and Aziraphale cuts him a curious look out of the corner of his eye.

“Thought we’d feed the pigeons,” he says. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh, thought I’d take this handsome man I picked up somewhere to the London Aquarium,” he says, as casually as he can with the excitement buzzing in his veins. “Make a date of it.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Is that so? If you’re busy, I suppose I’ll make a trip to Paris, pick up some crepes.”

“That’d be for the best,” Crowley agrees, and he puts his arms around him, casually fanning the tickets in front of him. “You wouldn’t believe how hot this guy is, and I’m hoping I’ll get lucky. I’ll put a sock on the door in case you’re back early.”

Aziraphale gasps, putting the sauce spoon carefully on the trivet so he can grab the tickets, squinting at them as if he’s afraid they’re forged. “Crowley! Oh, my dear, you didn’t!”

“He’s a classy one,” Crowley says, grinning. “Takes something special to impress.”

“But how can we afford these? We’re behind on the electric bill, dear, and my hours–”

“Relax, angel, Mrs. Dowling gave them to me,” Crowley says, running a reassuring hand down his arm. “Totally free. Well, at the cost of my sanity, maybe, but that’s not a bad deal in this economy.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and he turns in Crowley’s arms to face him. He’s looking at Crowley like he’s hung the moon, and he leans in to kiss him like he could live off the taste of his lips alone.)

They enter a room that’s mostly empty; watch a mother play peekaboo with her daughter, the father holding the girl on one side of a tank, the mother ducking behind fish and corral on the other, making the girl squeal with delight.

Crowley has glitter in his hair–from the night before, but he also just likes the way it looks, so he put more in this morning, gold bright in his red hair–and some of it has stuck to Aziraphale’s cheek, and the otherworldly light of the water catches it just right, makes it shine like stars. It is not uncommon for Crowley to cover Aziraphale in glitter; so much is ingrained in the fibers of the tweed jacket he wears it looks gilded in the right light.

“He doth teach the torches to burn bright,” Crowley says softly, touching the glitter on his cheek, and Aziraphale smiles at him, cheeks coloring. He gets an idea, and waits until the family has moved on to take Aziraphale’s hand in his. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” he says. “Which mannerly devotion shows in this, / For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” He presses their hands flat together, and leans in to kiss him, but Crowley steps back. Aziraphale’s brow furrows, his lips pulling into a pout, and he clasps their hands together again to keep him from moving away. Crowley goes anyway, darting to the other side of the tank to peer at him through the impossible water, and God, he looks so good in blue. Aziraphale’s breath hitches, his lips parting.

(It looks like this:

They met in an Intro to Philosophy class in 1996, nearly coming to blows even on the first day, the simple question of ‘What is Philosophy?’ Crowley couldn’t help but antagonize him, loved how he looked when he was frustrated and indignant, how he thumbed the cross around his neck when Crowley had gotten into his head. He threw an argument about Kant, who he frankly considered to be full of shit, so Aziraphale would be in a good mood after class.

He wasn’t, though, he was just suspicious, demanding to know why he’d conceded when he’d spent all semester insisting there is no Categorical Imperative, no supreme moral code, that the only consideration that should be taken in a course of action is the consequences it will have, and he was as frustrated as he’d ever been in the heat of an argument, and he looked beautiful.

“I was distracted,” Crowley said. “Thinking about this poster I saw, for that new Romeo and Juliet movie. You like Shakespeare, don’t you?” He did. He knew he did. He’d noticed him, furiously annotating in the margins of an old copy of Hamlet that was more notes than text; he had this wretchedly charming little Stratford-upon-Avon tourist pin he wore all the time.

“I…do?” Aziraphale said, blinking at him. He had the most wonderful eyes. Crowley had noticed the very first day, when they’d gone wide at some horribly blasphemous comment Crowley threw out to shock and impress.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Crowley couldn’t help bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement; he’d seen Aziraphale in the audience of their production of Twelfth Night, alone but looking like he was in Heaven, hanging on every word, and then he’d seen that poster, and he’d known, that was the ticket. Well, the tickets would be the ticket. _Anyway_.

“Not…really?” Aziraphale said, brow furrowing.

“Great, so you wanna go with me?”

“Go where?”

“To see the new Romeo and Juliet,” Crowley said, and he felt he’d been quite smooth about it all, even if his palms were sweating.

“With you?” Aziraphale looked completely baffled.

“Yes, with me,” he said. _Please, please, please,_ Crowley didn’t pray, because he hadn’t prayed since he was thirteen and realized that if they expected young men to be straight, it was kind of ridiculous of the church to make Jacob Wrestling the Angel look _like that_, and the whole foundation of the church in his mind just kind of tumbled from there; but he did put it out into the universe, just in case someone was listening. _Please, please, please, I never ask for anything_. Not of the universe, anyway.

“I…you want _me _to go with you?” Aziraphale looked like he was doing a particularly difficult math problem and none of the numbers were adding up right. It would be charming, and might make his chest feel a little tighter, that he was this unused to being asked out on dates, but it was more just frustrating. He was losing his nerve.

“Just meet me at the theater with the discount tickets for students at seven, alright?” Crowley said impatiently, and Aziraphale, still confused but looking relieved at having specific instructions, nodded. The moment he’d left the building, he’d pumped his fist, grinning like a madman, unaware that Aziraphale could still see him through a window in the corridor.)

“Have not saints lips?” Crowley asks from the other side of the tank, giving him a coy look. “And holy palmers too?”

“Ay, pilgrim, lips they must use in prayer,” Aziraphale says, with a delighted smile.

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” Crowley says, and darts around the tank. Aziraphale dodges him, going to the other side to throw him a mischievous look. “They pray,” Crowley whines, “grant thou, lest faith turn to despair!”

“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake,” Aziraphale says; and the breathless joy as he’d watched the jellyfish was nothing compared to what’s on his face now, and Crowley is dizzy with it.

“Then move not,” Crowley begs, crossing to the other side of the tank slowly, “while my prayer’s affect I take.” Aziraphale stands still, watching him, and tilts his chin just a little, lips parting.

(It looks like this:

Leonardo Dicaprio sees Claire Danes through the aquarium for the first time, and Crowley leans in, his breath ghosting against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “That’s how I felt when I first saw you,” he says.

“You do know how the play ends, don’t you?” Aziraphale says, voice shaking just a little. He’s trying to tease, but there’s a note of sincerity too.

“They were kids,” Crowley says. “I know better than to trust a friar. Besides, it was beautiful, wasn’t it? How they loved each other despite everything.”

Aziraphale looks at him; he really looks, his eyes bright in the dark theater, and then he turns away. Crowley’s heart sinks, but before he can start kicking himself, Aziraphale takes his hand, his cheeks pink, and Crowley glows.)

Crowley kisses him as tenderly as he has for twenty years. Their first wasn’t after their first date, or their second, or their third; but it had been worth the wait, their shaking breath and trembling hands, the certainty of their lips, and Crowley knew then, the moment their lips met, with the same conviction he felt now after two decades, that he would spend the rest of a long and glorious life with Aziraphale.

“Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged,” he whispers, and Aziraphale’s hands grip the lapels of his leather jacket.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took?” Aziraphale says, and Crowley grins wolfishly.

“Sin from thy lips? O, trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again,” he demands, and Aziraphale pulls him into another kiss, smiling against his lips, letting Crowley press him back against the cool glass of the tank until they hear footsteps echoing and the chatter of voices. Crowley breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s, catching his breath, though the waver of light across his face isn’t helping, nor is the way the light from behind makes his curls look like a halo. His angel, indeed.

“You kiss by th’ book,” Aziraphale whispers.

“Teenagers,” grumbles the voice of a man, when he sees the outline of two figures embraced on the other side of a tank, and Crowley barks out a laugh, taking a step back. He takes Aziraphale’s hand, and leads him blushing into the next room, feeling smug when he hears the same voice exclaim that they’re older than he is, they ought to know better.

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,” Crowley says, pulling him closer to link their arms again. “Who is already sick and pale with grief, / that thou art far more fair than he.”

“Don’t be rude, darling,” Aziraphale laughs, but he’s beaming, gentle as the soft lightening of the horizon, bright and radiant as the sun beneath it, and Crowley–oh, Crowley _loves _him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from [Everything That Was Broken by Mary Oliver](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186920519977/everything-that-was-broken-by-mary-oliver-from)   
Chapter Title from Act 1, Scene 5 of Romeo and Juliet  
Inspired by 1996 romeo and juliet; conversation with [saaliyah](https://saaliyah.tumblr.com/) and [genderqueercrowley](url) about r+j and Them; conversation with [transsouthernpansy](https://transsouthernpansy.tumblr.com/) about Aquariums; when john mulaney said [That](https://thenichedotblog.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/screen-shot-2018-11-03-at-5-04-54-pm.png?w=620) about his wife annamarie tendler  
HIGHLY recommend [i keep a window for you (it's always open)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19719241) by [genderqueercrowley](https://genderqueercrowley.tumblr.com/) which makes wonderful use of shakespeare
> 
> I got requests on tumblr to put the human au on ao3, so here it is! I'll upload things here too when I post them on tumblr I suppose? Here is [the masterpost!](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186918602922/human-au-masterpost)
> 
> join me on tumblr for my nonstop good omens meltdown at [mortuarybees](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/)


	3. honey, let's get married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I love you more than the world can contain  
In its lonely and ramshackle head."  
[-John My Beloved by Sufjan Stevens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wVZUBMUekck)

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

_Please, please, please,_ he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

_It’s been a long time,_ Aziraphale thinks. _He’s getting older–**I’m** getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?_

_He asked first,_ he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

_He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, _he tells himself. _He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to **us.**  
_

_I’m overthinking this,_ he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

_Thank you,_ he prays. _Amen_. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“_Crowley_,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s _perfect_; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize. )

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “_Crowley!_”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an _outfit _planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley _loves him_, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a _lot _to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you _mean_–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“_If I’ll–_I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), _“Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”_

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, _shit,_ he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; _and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, _my husband, my husband, my husband._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Let's Get Married by Mitski](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5zuvs8EZDY) (I KNOW it's a cover but mitski is all that matters)  
Title is from [Everything That Was Broken by Mary Oliver](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186920519977/everything-that-was-broken-by-mary-oliver-from)
> 
> I got requests on tumblr to put the human au on ao3, so here it is! I'll upload things here too when I post them on tumblr I suppose? Here is [the masterpost!](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186918602922/human-au-masterpost)
> 
> join me on tumblr for my nonstop good omens meltdown at [mortuarybees](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/)


	4. a great unrecorded history

It looks like this:

Crowley has asked Aziraphale out twice now, and it hasn’t gotten any easier.

“You want to go to dinner?” They’re standing outside the English & Philosophy building, and he shifts nervously beneath the imposing sycamore tree, struggling to hold his stack of books. It’s overcast (isn’t it always?), and in the shade of the tree, it’s dark, almost intimate.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to hold those?” Crowley asks doubtfully, catching a thin paperback as it falls off the top.

“I’m–” he blushes, and Crowley beams at him, gesturing for the stack. He hands some of them over, and–alright, yeah, they’re heavy, but whatever. “Thank you.”

“‘Course,” he says. “Where are we going?”

“Ah,” he frowns, looking at him inscrutably. “I was going to go to my dorm room?”

“Lead the way,” Crowley says, waiting until Aziraphale takes a few apprehensive steps to fall in beside him. “Anyway, yes, I–” he ducks his head, wishes he weren’t holding the books so he could fidget with his glasses or tuck his hands in his pockets, “I had fun, last time. And seeing Romeo + Juliet.” He throws him a sideways look to find him staring openly at him, and he turns his eyes forward, clears his throat, cheeks turning a deep red. This is a victory, as far as Crowley is concerned. “Did you?”

“I did,” he says in a rush. “But you…want to do it again?”

“Said I did, didn’t I?” Crowley says impatiently. “Listen, if you don’t want to, you can say so, won’t hurt my feelings.” It might. Okay, it will, but he’ll put on a brave face and just go back to his dorm and listen to the Smiths and cry for a while, like everyone does.

“I want to,” Aziraphale says slowly, as if he’s afraid Crowley’s somehow leading him into a trap but he hasn’t spotted the spring yet. “If you do. You don’t have to, you know.”

“We’ve already covered this, I want to. If you want to, it’s a date,” he says, warmth blooming in his chest like the sun emerging from the clouds. He likes Aziraphale too much, he knows; it’s strange how much he likes him, completely mad. They hardly know each other.

“A date,” Aziraphale murmurs, almost to himself, with a pleased and barely-there curve of his lips, and Crowley smiles at him. Maybe that’s why he likes him so much. He can admit it to himself: he doesn’t smile terribly often, anymore, but Aziraphale brings it out in him, with wonderfully, naively optimistic declarations in class, jokes he tells with a wince as if he’s anticipating ridicule, his odd, circular logic and how he mouths words along as he reads, sometimes even traces a finger beneath the line like some kind of hunched monk in a dim abbey.

“A date,” Crowley agrees.

(It looks like this:

Crowley won’t meet him until the first day of the one class they’ll share, but he notices him at freshers week. He looks like he stepped out of Dead Poets Society or Oxford in the 1950s, in tweed and honest-to-God wingtips, and he’s like Crowley. Well, broadly speaking.

His pale curls are cut unevenly, as if he did it himself, and he wears clunky glasses too big for his cherub–no, they call them something else, putti, maybe–whatever, his round and frankly angelic face. He clings to some huge paperback like a lifeline, gnawing anxiously at his plump lower lip.

Crowley takes a drag of his cigarette and meets his eye through the exhale of smoke. He holds it for a long moment, and lifts the cigarette to him, in a way that’s an invitation, and a greeting, and a subtle gesture to the rainbow pin on his own lapel. There’s a bright flash of recognition in his eyes as he sees.

And then he turns away.)

Aziraphale is not, as Crowley anticipated, in the nice building with central air and heating. Instead, he’s in the big, historic dorm, which he should have expected. If he’s learned anything at this point, it’s that Aziraphale is committed to a certain aesthetic, and modern architecture and carpeting is not part of it.

“I’ll take my books,” he says, gesturing for Crowley to put them on the top of the stack, and though something in his chest leaps at an opportunity to help, insists that he offer to take them up, he understands Aziraphale doesn’t want to bring a guy he hardly knows up to his room, so he hands them over.

“Are you free tonight?” he asks eagerly, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was, in truth, planning to wait until his next paycheck to ask him out again, but he can’t. It’s a Herculean feat of effort to keep from asking him out again the moment their date ends, or as soon as he sees him in class. It’s quite restrained of him, he thinks, to have only asked him out three times in two weeks.

“I am,” he says, the tips of his ears turning pink, and fuck, if that isn’t endearing; but then his face closes off, and he straightens his shoulders as best he can with the books in his arms. “Crowley, you…you know I’m not…”

“You’re not?” Crowley prompts when he doesn’t continue.

He bites at his lip, then says quite suddenly, “Crowley, you are…gay, aren’t you?”

Crowley throws back his head and laughs.

(It looks like this:

He sees him around. He’s not looking for him, persay, but it wouldn’t be accurate to say he doesn’t keep an eye out for him, either. There’s a rainbow pin on his lapel, now, small beside his little Stratford-upon-Avon souvenir and charmingly inoffensive Books Not Bombs pin. He could be a lesbian, Crowley supposes, but he doesn’t think so. Sometimes, you can just tell. Lesbians have a boldness about their person that this young man simply does not. Besides, lesbians travel in packs of other sapphics and very occasionally pet straight women they’ve taken under their wings, and he doesn’t seem to have any friends. Wide-eyed and beguiling as he is, he would’ve been adopted by now.

He’s like Crowley. Broadly speaking.)

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes peevishly, after several moments.

He bites down on his smile, and pulls his carton of cigarettes out. Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably as he lights the cigarette, and Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. Do you mind?”

“No, no, go ahead,” he says. “Just. The books.”

“I can hold them,” he says.

“No, I’ve got them,” he says, after a moment. His face is turning very red, and after he takes his first drag, Crowley notices his eyes have taken on a wounded, watery quality. He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders again, avoiding Crowley’s gaze. “Ah, sorry, I suppose, I just thought, your pins, and–”

“Yeah, angel, I’m gay,” Crowley says gently, and Aziraphale ducks his head; the nickname, employed ever since they left the theater, never fails to make him blush. “Almost exclusively.”

“Almost–”

“You’re the exclusively,” he says. “I’d think that’d be obvious.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale says, his voice soft, and Crowley’s chest squeezes painfully at that. “You know I’m a man, right?”

“'Course I do,” he says. He takes a nervous drag, flicks ash to the sidewalk.

“You’re sure? Because I–”

“Angel,” he interrupts. “Listen, I promise, I know you’re a man. I probably wouldn’t be asking you out if you weren’t.”

Aziraphale brightens at that. “Probably?”

“I prefer men,” Crowley shrugs. “Can’t really say only, but mostly.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, satisfied.

“And you?” Crowley asks, as nonchalant as he can manage.

“Mostly,” Aziraphale echoes. Crowley smiles, knot in his chest loosening.

“Besides,” he says, kicking at a tuft of grass so he doesn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Besides?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowely hesitates.

The thing is, Crowley’s never really talked to anyone about it. Not really, not in so many words.

It’s a hard thing to verbalize, even when you’ve read Butler and Boswell and Bland and de Beauvoir and all the rest of the goddamn alphabet of people like Crowley who never stop asking questions, even when it makes his head hurt.

It feels like it would be an underwhelming statement. _I feel like a man, but only mostly. Sometimes almost completely, sometimes only tangentially, really, it depends on how I look at it. _

He thinks Aziraphale will understand, though. He hopes he will.

(It looks like this:

Crowley is Antonio is their production of Twelfth Night. He’s in the audience of three of their productions, watching with a rapt attention and delight that makes Crowley forget his lines when he looks at him for more than a beat. Crowley wants to believe his eyes linger a little longer on him than they do the other actors, but he’s not sure if he’s…projecting. If he wants it to be true, so he’s fooling himself into thinking there’s a moment after Crowley’s finished saying his lines and the student playing Sebastian has begun saying his that he keeps looking at him, those blue eyes noticing him, over and over.

He’s like Crowley. He’s confident of it.)

“I understand,” he mutters.

“You understand,” Aziraphale repeats, confused. “You understand what?”

“The whole,” he waves the hand holding the cigarette, ash falling. “Gender. Thing.”

“Gender thing?” He says, and understanding dawns in his eyes. “You’re trans, too?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. “I dunno. Sort of? Not really. Just…don’t feel,” he gestures, broadly. “All…not-that.”

“Are you a trans woman?” Aziraphale asks, and he shakes his head, sighs, shifts.

“No, not like a woman, just, sometimes, not like a man,” he says. “A little? Sometimes a lot. Sometimes not really at all. Does that make sense?”

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering. Crowley appreciates this about him, he really does, that he’ll really think about what you say to him, turn it over in his mind, but right now, he’s kind of having a moment, a big one, and he’d really like some immediate, instinctive gratification. “It does,” he says finally. “I understand what you mean. Genderqueer, yes?”

Crowley stares at him, at the nakedness of his expression, the bare knowing, and he knows he does understand. He feels a tidal of relief crash over him. “Yeah,” he says, a crooked smile finding its way onto his lips. “Yeah, that works.”

Aziraphale smiles back, and there’s something like relief in his eyes too. “Still Crowley, then? And–the same pronouns?”

He nods. “Yeah. That part doesn’t matter so much, to me.”

“So, ah,” he shifts, and Crowley grimaces; this was really all he had to say, he really doesn’t know what else he could articulate, exactly, doesn’t know that he’s going to have answers and worries that Aziraphale will stop looking at him with that understanding, that relieved _you’re like me._ “Dinner? Tonight?”

Crowley grins. “Is seven alright?”

“Seven is divine, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from [Everything That Was Broken by Mary Oliver](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186920519977/everything-that-was-broken-by-mary-oliver-from)   
Chapter title refers to this quote by E.M. Forster about his lover, Mohammed el-Adl: “When I am with him, smoking or talking quietly ahead, or whatever it may be, I see, beyond my own happiness and intimacy, occasional glimpses of the happiness of 1000s of others whose names I shall never hear, and know that there is a great unrecorded history."
> 
> I got requests on tumblr to put the human au on ao3, so here it is! I'll upload things here too when I post them on tumblr I suppose? Here is [the masterpost!](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186918602922/human-au-masterpost)
> 
> join me on tumblr for my nonstop good omens meltdown at [mortuarybees](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/)


	5. until i can smell its sweet smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And even though you said today you felt better,   
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,   
to say, _I don’t feel good,_
> 
> to ask you to tell me a story   
about the sweetgrass you planted—and tell it again   
or again—
> 
> until I can smell its sweet smoke,   
leave this thrashed field, and be smooth?"  
-[From the Desire Field by Natalie Diaz](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/poems/envelopes-of-air-ada-limon-and-natalie-diaz-forge-a-bond-amid-the-shifting-landscape-of-contemporary-america)

It looks like this:

The air is cool and thick, filled with a light mist, and it promises a rainy and dreary day; but it is barely dawn, now, and there is a soft, muted beauty to the darkness of the street below, just barely lit with a thin grey light. Crowley leans out their small window balcony, a cigarette posed on his lips, the watering can balanced on the sill. He exhales a cloud of smoke, watching the way the water in the air weighs it down, makes it heavy, and a smile curves around a wide yawn. He loathes waking this early, has never been a morning person, but it’s not so bad, to enjoy the stillness before the bustle of a busy, thriving city.

Aziraphale doesn’t like it when he smokes; he says there are less dangerous vices to indulge, worries about his lungs, and Crowley understands, he does, but he’s smoked on and off for some twenty years now, and he likes the way it fills him up, that nicotine rush, and then settles him, gives him something to do with his nervous, flighty hands.

{It looks like this:

This was their first argument, sometime on the dark walk home from a date. It was weeks before Aziraphale finally hauled Crowley in for a kiss, asked him, like it was 1945, if he wanted to go steady, like Crowley hadn’t been committed to him since the moment he first saw him, that afternoon during fresher’s week, hadn’t already laid in bed and thought,_ I’m going to marry him_, after their third date. He was bad-tempered this evening, though he’d still insisted on going out, and Crowley pulled out his pack of cigarettes, smacking it against his palm.

“Must you do that?” Aziraphale snapped at him.

Crowley paused, a cigarette halfway to his mouth. Early on, he’d always asked before smoking around Aziraphale, but he’d always said yes, so he stopped asking. “No, I can wait.”

“I mean at all,” Aziraphale said. “It’s terrible for you, don’t you know?”

“Lots of things are terrible for me, angel, I can’t quit them all,” he drawled.

“You could quit the one most likely to kill you,” he said. “Really, it’s a disgusting habit.”

“Oh, disgusting, is it?” he said, raising his eyebrows. He’d been short and irritable all night, picking at his food, complaining about the weather, and it had put Crowley in a foul mood too. “I’m disgusting, now?” He knew that wasn’t really a fair leap to make, but Aziraphale was clearly roiling for an argument, and Crowley was sick of trying to be the bigger person.

“That’s not what I said,” he said, scowling. “But the habit certainly does you no credit.”

“What, not fancy enough for you?” he said, irritation buzzing in his chest. He’d seen the tense set of Aziraphale’s shoulders, his squared jaw, tilted frown, and he’d asked if he was sure he wanted to go out tonight, promised they could reschedule, or do something else, but he’d insisted. Yet he’d spent the whole night picking at him, like he wanted him to get pissed. He lit the cigarette anyway, though because he wasn’t a complete asshole, he still held it in the hand opposite Aziraphale, careful that the smoke didn’t drift to him. “You want me to smoke cigars, or–” he gestured, “get those gold tipped things they have in the movies? This too _base _for you?”

“It certainly smells worse,” he sniffed, tilting his chin imperiously, and–well, it hurt, a little, and his temper flared in response.

“Oh, that why you won’t kiss me then?” he snapped. He hadn’t brought it up, really, not since he asked if he could kiss him after their first date and he said no, told him he wanted to go slow, and Crowley was happy to oblige, but it had been seven dates, and a guy started to wonder if there wasn’t something wrong, at a certain point. “You used to guys tasting like–like–” he fumbled, and cursed at himself. What the hell did rich guys taste like? “Fancy mints?” _Oh, fancy mints, brilliant._ They entered the campus grounds, and Crowley’s stomach sank. He hadn’t realized they were so close, he didn’t want to end the evening on a sour note.

Aziraphale turned red. “Maybe,” he hissed, “I just don’t want to get too attached to someone for whom this clearly means far less.”

Crowley stared at him, the cigarette loose between his fingers. “The fuck?” he managed to spit out.

“I think I’m going to take the shortcut,” he said, stopping abruptly on what was, admittedly, the more direct path to his dorm. They usually drew the evenings out, though, taking their time, usually even lingered for a bit to chat outside his building. “Good night, Crowley.” And with that, and Crowley struck dumb, he stormed away.)

He hears the bedroom door creak open, and hurriedly stubs the cigarette out on the brick side of the building, drops it in the little canister just out the window, mostly hidden, and fumbles to pick up the watering can. Aziraphale putters around in the kitchen, filling the electric kettle, putting bagels in the toaster.

“There’s that box of strawberries in the fridge,” he reminds him without turning around, watering a rose bush. “Need to eat them today or they’ll go bad.” Aziraphale only hums in response, and Crowley’s lip twitches. He likes the mornings, will even get up early when he doesn’t have to, the monster, but he’s not functional before his tea, will barely say a word.

There’s the familiar clatter of mugs taken down from the cupboard, the kettle lifted from its base, the bubbling whoosh of boiling water over tea bags, and he smiles, listening to Aziraphale’s familiar footfalls approach. He sets Crowley’s tea on the windowsill and wraps his arms around his stomach, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Good morning, dear.”

“Morning,” he says, turning his head to kiss him on the cheek.

“How are your little darlings?”

“My little _disappointments _are doing fine,” he says. “The damned hyacinth should be in bloom by now. I might have to toss it,” this he directs at the offending pot in question.

“Oh, do give it a chance, love,” Aziraphale tuts. He leans back a bit to sip his tea, and Crowley puts the watering can down on the balcony, picks up his own mug. It’s uncomfortably hot against his coldnumb fingers, and he scowls. “It’s going to be a gloomy day, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it,” he mutters, squinting out at the slowly lightening street. Aziraphale’s warm body pressed against his back is a pleasant contrast against the chill, and he leans back against him, smiling at how he tightens his arm around his middle, kisses the bend of his neck.

Then he sniffs at his collar, and lifts his head. “You’ve been smoking.”

“Haven’t,” Crowley says weakly, and Aziraphale sighs, shaking his head.

“I just wish you wouldn’t,” he says. “It’s terrible for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he agrees, and brightens, turning around. Aziraphale’s soft hair is sleep-mussed, sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are bleary. His pajamas have always been ridiculous; a matching set, under a proper banyan, like some kind of Austen man. “How about we make a deal?”

“A deal?” Aziraphale smiles. “What kind of deal?”

“We play hooky today,” he says, and Aziraphale’s smile dims. “No, listen, we stay home today, just the two of us, lounge around eating strawberries, ignore our phones, and this’ll be my last pack. Scout’s honor.”

“We don’t have that many strawberries,” Aziraphale points out, brow furrowing. “You weren’t in the Scouts.”

“Whatever,” Crowley says, waving dismissively. “We spend the day together. Maybe we could go to the Tate, haven’t been there in a while, or–”

“Crowley, dearest,” he says with great gentleness, “we can’t. My hours–”

“Just today,” Crowley says. “C'mon, when’s the last time you called in sick?”

“They’re practically looking for excuses to fire people, dear,” Aziraphale says, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, it would just be–well, terribly irresponsible.”

“What’s the point of life if we can’t be irresponsible sometimes,” Crowley mutters, but he knows he’s right. Disappointment curls in his stomach, and a bit of despair, too–he works six days out of the week, and too little of his and Aziraphale’s time overlaps. They’re luckier than most, he knows that, but that still doesn’t mean _enough_.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes downcast, and Crowley summons a smile, pats his arm.

“Not your fault,” he says. “It’s capitalism, right?” He takes his tea into the kitchen to pull their bagel halves out of the toaster, fetching the pot of cream cheese and box of strawberries from the fridge.

(It looks like this:

Crowley lay in bed, staring up at the crack in the ceiling and itching to do something terribly irresponsible like find someone to give him a stick-and-poke tattoo, or something cheesy like throw rocks at Aziraphale’s window so he could apologize.

Except it wasn’t really his fault, was it? Aziraphale had been needling him all night, but–well, he’d known he was just in a bad mood, and he’d given into it anyway, snapped at him, made it more personal than cigarettes. But he did imply that Crowley was disgusting, which was cruel.

He rolled over with a groan, pulling the thin Romeo and Juliet paperback from under his pillow, and opened it to the strip of pictures they’d taken in a photo booth at a festival on the high street. Aziraphale was flushed red with excitement and the two drinks he’d put away, his hair a bit wild, glasses askew; it had gotten too warm for even him to wear his blazer, and it was slung over Crowley’s arm, the one that wasn’t wrapped around his shoulders. They beamed at the camera in the first, Crowley gave him rabbit ears in the second, in the third Aziraphale pressed his hair into his cheek, Crowley making a face at him, and in the fourth, Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek, Crowley’s eyes wide, mouth agape. He’d wanted to turn and kiss him properly, press him against the inside of the photo booth and kiss him like he’d never been kissed before, until someone came to kick them out, dragged them out by their feet and told them to get lost, and find an alley to continue it, but he’d held back, knowing he’d only kissed his cheek because he was tipsy, he didn’t mean it as an invitation.

How could he think that it didn’t mean as much to Crowley? The very idea completely baffled him; he felt quite certain that if either of them had been standoffish or aloof, it had been _Aziraphale_. Aziraphale had asked him out a few times now, shy and nervous like he thought Crowley was going to refuse–and Christ, he’d thought his heart would stop that first time, the pink flush in his cheeks, the way he just barely glanced at Crowley from under his lashes–but it had been Crowley chasing him, not the other way around. It was _Aziraphale_ who said he wanted to go slow, didn’t want to kiss him, hardly wanted to do anything but hold hands on occasion, and stroll arm in arm–

Alright, it had to be mentioned, Crowley loved that, he loved how Aziraphale went for strolls, not walks, _strolls_, had his favorite routes for whatever mood he happened to be in, the shyness with which he brought Crowley to new paths, like he was introducing him to his family, how he liked to do it with their arms linked, occasionally leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and he could smell his shampoo mingled with the spring air. Crowley had dated guys before, _slept_ with guys before, but nothing he’d ever done had been so intoxicating as catching a whiff of Aziraphale’s cologne. He felt giddy and lovesick and wild about him; but there was a peace he’d started to find too, a stillness, like the whole world was spinning around him, off-kilter and fast, but Aziraphale made him feel grounded, like he didn’t have to sprint to catch up with everyone else. Like it would be enough to just lay in the grass and watch the rest of the world make itself sick running endless races, those loud American cars in neverending laps.

Oh, yes, he was completely fucked.

He closed the book and pressed his face into the pillow, unable to look at the photos anymore. What if Aziraphale didn’t want to see him again? Maybe he’d pushed too much, maybe he’d made him feel rushed, he _did _hound him an awful lot, and being entirely honest with himself, Aziraphale could do much better than some broke asshole in secondhand clothes reeking of smoke who’d fallen head over heels for him two days into meeting him–

Someone knocked at the door, and Crowley shoved his head under the pillow, scowling. His roommate groaned theatrically from the other bed. Whoever it was kept knocking, and finally called, “Crowley, phone for you.”

Crowley opened his eyes, frowning. No one really called him. Certainly not his family. Aziraphale, very occasionally, but not often, and not tonight, not after how they’d ended things.

“C'mon, mate, I don’t have all night,” they snapped, stomping away, and Crowley got to his feet, shuffling out the door and to the phone down the hall, hanging just off the hook.

He picked it up. “Hello?”

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said, sounding relieved, and Crowley pulled back to stare at the phone, a startled warmth flooding him. “I wasn’t sure you’d take my call.”

“You didn’t say you’d be calling,” he said, leaning against the wall. He bit down on a smile, ducking his head to hide it behind his hair, inspecting his bare feet on the carpet.

“Well, ah, I left in quite a state, didn’t I?” he said, huffing an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t intend to call then, but the moment I left, I regretted it, dear boy, you have to believe me. I’m terribly sorry for what I said.”

“You’re–sorry?” Crowley blinked.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I–I was upset, irritated, and I took it out on you, and that wasn’t right.”

“Uh,” Crowley cleared his throat. “No, ’s fine.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “I do hope you’ll let me make it up to you. Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow night? If–if you’d rather wait, or think about it, given my behavior, I understand–”

“No, dinner sounds great,” Crowley said, grinning. His throat felt thick and his eyes stung with tears, and it was stupid, he wasn’t even sure why, he’d just–half expected, he supposed, that he’d have to grovel forever for another chance, for Aziraphale to forgive him. Never thought he’d be the one to apologize. “Actually, what are you doing right now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’re you doing now?” he bit his lip. “There’s a 24 hour pub down the street, we could grab something now.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley could hear his smile. “I’m in my pajamas.”

“It’s a 24 hour pub down from a university, angel, I’m sure they’ve seen worse than some kid in silk pajamas.”

“You don’t know they’re silk.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Are they?”

Aziraphale paused. “Maybe.”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “See? I know you.”

“I suppose you do,” he mused. “If you insist. So long as you’re in your pajamas as well.”

“I am,” he assured him. “I’ll put on shoes for you, though. Wouldn’t want to scandalize you with my ankle.”

“I appreciate that,” he said drily. “You know, I’ve never been out of the house in my pajamas before.”

“I’m honored to be your first,” Crowley said earnestly. “I’ll be at your dorm in five, alright?”

“Alright, dear boy,” he said, his voice warm. “I’ll be waiting.)

Aziraphale sits his tea on the counter beside Crowley’s and sighs, running a soothing hand down his spine. "I am sorry, dear.”

“No, I know,” Crowley says. “I’m not upset with you, just…the situation. I’d just like to have a day together. Another one, I guess.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Still, I’m sorry. I wish we could too.”

Crowley leans back into his hand as he smears cream cheese on their bagels. “Fuck capitalism.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Fuck capitalism,” he agrees, and moves away to get the small cutting board and a knife from the drying rack to cut up the strawberries.

“Thanks for saying ‘fuck,’” Crowley says, lips curving. “You know it always makes me smile.”

“I do,” he says.

They move to the small dining table with their tea and bagels, and Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, smiling at him like they’re two kids on a first date, and runs his thumb along his knuckles. “Maybe you could try and come home a few hours early? And we could rent that movie you’ve been wanting to watch, the one about Queen.”

Crowley beams at him. “That’d be–I’d love it,” he says, squeezing his hand, even though it’d be easier to eat his bagel with both free. “Maybe a bottle of wine from Sainsbury’s?” He quirks his brow, smiles suggestively. “We’ve already got condoms, don’t worry about that.”

Aziraphale laughs, shaking his head. “Subtle, darling.”

“Oh, really? Wasn’t trying to be.”

“You’re entirely incorrigible,” he sniffs, and pauses. “Good to know, though.”

(It looks like this:

It was dark and quiet out, a Tuesday night, intimate in the shadows between the lampposts. Aziraphale did wear silky pajamas, under a hideous paisley dressing gown, and it looked so at odds with his wingtips Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. They held hands, talking and yawning in the street, and separated only to find the backmost booth of the pub.

Aziraphale ordered tea and a slice of pie, and kicked at Crowley and scowled until he ordered chips.

“What had you so irritated, then?” Crowley asked finally, after the waiter had brought their food.

Aziraphale took his time putting his napkin in his lap, twirled his fork around in his hand, before answering. “I spoke to my brother on the phone, before you came. He just makes me so angry, sometimes, and I–shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’ll do my best to be more considerate, in the future.”

“Did you mean what you said, though?” Crowley said, and winced. He should just accept the apology, he shouldn’t _push _at him, only he knew it would dog him until he got an answer. He inspected a chip carefully to avoid his eye.

“About the cigarettes? I do worry about you, dear, truly, but I don’t think it’s disgusting,” he said. “Or–well. I always have, but you…look rather cool, I think. Smoking isn’t, but–you are. I was being cruel, and I do apologize, truly.”

“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “The…other thing. About me not caring as much.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley glanced up to see him staring at the table, gnawing at his lip. “Well, it’s only–you’re just very handsome, Crowley, and interesting, and–and cool. I’m sure you get this sort of thing all the time, but I don’t.” He laughed, just a quiet thing. “I don’t really talk to people, much, and I…always kind of thought,” he traces a whirl in the surface of the table, “this sort of thing wouldn’t happen, for me. Being trans. It’s silly, I know, but I was always afraid…and you’ve really no idea what it means to me, to have it. For it to be _you_. I like you, a lot.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice coming out choked; and unsure what to say, he simply reached out, taking his hand, holding it there on the table. “I think I do know.” 

Aziraphale peeked at him. “You do?”

“I like you too, angel,” he said, running his thumb along Aziraphale’s. “God, I like you a lot.” He laughed, mouth quirking. “Too much, maybe. I don’t…this means a lot to me, too. I don’t want you to think it doesn’t.”

“Oh,” he said. “Good, then.”

“Yeah,” Crowley breathed, beaming at him. “Good.”)

They’re halfway through Bohemian Rhapsody and their bottle of wine when the storm takes the power out, plunging the flat into darkness.

Crowley’s head is in his lap, Aziraphale’s hand stroking his hair, fingertips dragging along his scalp the way he knows Crowley likes, and when the tv screen goes dark, he groans, turning to press his face into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he sounds genuinely upset. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

“’s fine,” he says, voice muffled in Aziraphale’s shirt. “We’ve got it another couple of days, don’t we?”

“We do,” he says. “Still, I’m sorry. I wanted us to have a nice night together, I know you–”

“We _are _having a nice night together,” Crowley scolds, sitting up. He loops his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, playing with the shawl collar of his pajama shirt. “We always have a nice night together.”

“I know, but you wanted to do something special,” Aziraphale sighs.

“Things do always seem to go wrong,” he agrees, and gets to his feet. “The candles are in the coat closet, aren’t they?”

“We should just go to bed,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley gestures at him dismissively, rummaging around for the bag of half-melted candles they’ve collected over the years from various charity shops. He carries them through the kitchen into the living room, piled precariously in his arms, and sets to putting them around the room. “Here, dear, let me–”

“I’ve got it,” Crowley says, waving him back towards the couch. He fumbles with his lighter, making his way to all the candles. The light is dim and orange and ever-moving, and when he turns to face Aziraphale, to see that he’s satisfied with Crowley’s work, his breath stalls in his throat, at how it plays on his face, gentle and glowing. He looks…younger, softer, but there’s still those delighted crows feet around his eyes, that deep furrow between his brows, the laugh lines from his nose to his mouth. He’s smiling, pleased, the shadows dancing to highlight the curve of his cheek, then his soft jaw, his hair, fresh-washed that afternoon and free of product, curling against his forehead. He looks warm, and inviting, and like home, like a soft blanket and a hearth, and Crowley moves towards him, drawn like gravity, and straddles him, legs bracketing his hips, arms looping back around his neck. “Hey.”

His smile turns, somehow, softer, fonder, and he says, “hello, you.“

"God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and kisses the blush that rises in his cheeks, has every time he’s said it without fail.

“As are you, my dear,” he says, winding a lock of Crowley’s hair around his finger. “Oh, how lucky we are.”

“It’s not luck,” he says, and leans in to kiss him. “Fate, baby. It’s fate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from [Everything That Was Broken by Mary Oliver](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186920519977/everything-that-was-broken-by-mary-oliver-from)  
Chapter title from ["From the Desire Field" by Natalie Diaz](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/poems/envelopes-of-air-ada-limon-and-natalie-diaz-forge-a-bond-amid-the-shifting-landscape-of-contemporary-america)
> 
> I got requests on tumblr to put the human au on ao3, so here it is! I'll upload things here too when I post them on tumblr I suppose? Here is [the masterpost!](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/post/186918602922/human-au-masterpost) Ya'll can send prompts for human au there if you want to?
> 
> join me on tumblr for my nonstop good omens meltdown at [mortuarybees](https://mortuarybees.tumblr.com/)


End file.
